


Syria

by PeregrineBones



Series: Ineffability [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Love in a war zone, M/M, Motorcycles, Romance, Solar Energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeregrineBones/pseuds/PeregrineBones
Summary: Crowley is pleased, because he and Aziraphale are spending more time together. But then duty calls, and he must leave unexpectedly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffability [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520459
Kudos: 3





	Syria

The grimy light of an early winter morning filtered in through the north window of Aziraphale’s small bedroom. Crowley yawned and stretched, then sat up in the warm tangle of bedclothes, his head against the wall. He felt unwound, relaxed from sleepy but satisfying morning sex.

Aziraphale entered the room, freshly showered, wrapped in a towel. He started bustling about, dressing, pulling on pants and trousers, going through his shirts.

“Where’re you off to, angel?” Crowley asked lazily.

“Oh goodness me, didn’t I mention it?” said Aziraphale, buttoning a crisp, pale pink shirt. “I’m heading over to the International Solar Convention. It's in London this year.” He looked over his tie rack critically, a little line of concentration between his eyebrows.

“Solar convention?”

“Oh my, yes! It's quite exciting. Massive strides are being made every year. Did you know that the newest solar panel designs have increased efficiency by 50 per cent? And the price of solar panels has really plummeted. It’s actually cheaper per megawatt to build a solar farm than to build a coal powered plant. And there’s all sorts of new things going on in solar water purification systems and storage devices.” He selected two ties and brought them over to Crowley. “Which do you think?” he asked.

Crowley considered. “The blue,” he said. “Brings out your eyes.”

“This past summer, California was producing so much solar power they had to shut down the hydroelectric dams or risk overloading the grid,” Aziraphale continued as he went back to the mirror and started tying the blue tie. “And then if you factor in the rising sales of electric vehicles…..My word, if this kind of progress keeps up, there's a good chance global warming will be reversed. It's fantastic, really. The most optimistic news for my side in a long time.”

“Really, angel? Well, good. Honestly, anything that keeps the world from self-destructing is good news in my book. Don’t want another Armageddon, now, do we? Not any time soon, at any rate.”

Aziraphale selected a white silk jacket and slipped it on, buttoned it up, shot his cuffs. He looked himself over in the glass. He frowned at his reflection, smoothed his eyebrows. He looked absolutely glorious.

“You should come with,” he said. “You might find it interesting.”

“I might angel, I really might,” said Crowley. “But I’ve got to be at the annual Flat Earthers Convention this morning. I’m the keynote speaker, can’t get out of that. Then there’s a big Brexit meeting this afternoon, and I’d be missed, I really would. It’d be noticed you see, the home office is paying a lot of attention to those talks. I need to at least put in an appearance.”

“The wages of sin,” said Aziraphale, a bit sniffily.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Don’t forget the opera tonight.”

“Carmen,” replied Crowley, with a wry smile. Opera wasn’t really his thing, but he had agreed to go to please Aziraphale.

Aziraphale walked over and brushed his lips over Crowley's. Crowley felt the smoothness of his freshly shaved cheek against his own rough one. The angel snaked a hand under the covers and stroked Crowey’s thigh, a naughty smile playing over his face. Crowley swallowed hard, and ran his hand through Aziraphale’s soft golden curls.

“I’ll be there,” he said, hoarsely.

“Good,” said the angel. “See that you are!” He gave Crowley's thigh a firm possessive squeeze and left the room briskly, leaving a scent of lavender and lemon balm behind him.

********

Crowley left the bookshop with a sense of well being. He was quite satisfied with the way things were going. Perhaps he could get away without making an actual declaration of his feelings, he mused. He was basically getting what he wanted; quiet dinners, regular sex, little outings, Aziraphale waking up in the morning, nestled in his his arms and turning to smile at him. Perhaps this was enough, at least for now. After all, they had all of eternity to work it out.

Suddenly, he heard the roar of a motorcycle. A very large, very loud motorcycle. Crowley heard it from around the block and his heart sank. He knew who it was.

The shining machine rounded the corner and seemed to fill the narrow street in front of Mr. Fell’s Rare Books and Antiquities. People were diving out of the way to avoid being run over. The motorcycle obviously did not care.

It came to a screeching halt in front of the bookshop. The driver removed their helmet, and a shock of long flowing red hair tumbled out.

“Hello, Red,” said Crowley.

“Hop on,” commanded the unearthly beautiful woman seated on the bike. She handed him a helmet. “You’re wanted.”

Crowley did as he was told. He got on the motorcycle and put on the helmet, thinking sadly of Aziraphale as he did so (safety helmets were the angel’s department, after all).

“Where are we going?” he shouted over the roar of the engine starting up.

“Syria,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said. “Lovely.”

“Mr. White will be joining us there,” she said. “And Mr. Black, of course.”

“Of course,” responded Crowley. “What about Pollution? Isn’t he coming?”

“Tied up in Alaska,” she replied. “All the drilling, you know. They couldn’t spare him.”

“I see,” said Crowley.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic, demon,” she commented.

“It's just ...I had a date tonight,” Crowley replied.

“Oh, well,” Red said cheerfully. “Duty calls.”

“Yes,” replied Crowley. “Duty calls.”

********

When they stopped for petrol he stood outside by the pumps while Red went into the ladies. He got out his phone and called the bookshop, annoyed that the angel refused to carry a cell phone. It would be so much easier just to send a text. But Aziraphale was stubbornly old fashioned.

He got the angel's stuffy recorded message. “ _You have reached Mr. Fell’s Rare Books and Antiquities. Sorry we can’t come to the phone now, but please leave your name, phone number, time and date of the call and a brief message. We will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for your business.”_ Beep.

“Angel, look,” whispered Crowley into the phone. He knew Red would listen in on his call if she had the chance. “I’ve been called away. Unexpected business. I won’t make it to the opera tonight. Sorry about that but … it can’t be helped. I’ll be in touch.”

Red was approaching, and he hung off.

*******

The refugee camp was hot and dusty. Dry. The deserts on the border of Syria were, Crowley thought, the driest places on earth.

Crowley walked through the rows of tents and corrugated iron shelters, past the long line for the water truck, the longer line for the privies. Children played in the narrow alleys between the tents, running and shouting, kicking at a deflated soccer ball. He reached the center of the encampment, a market square of sorts, where everything from vegetables to toothpaste to second hand clothing was sold from brightly colored stalls. He had come for the taj al malek, a classic Syrian desert, drenched in sugar syrup and flavored with rosewater and pistachios. He had a weakness for it, and he was seeking out one particular baker, famous in these parts for his skill with this delicacy. He searched among the stalls, the air hot and fragrant with the odors of the thousands of things on sale - spices, goats, freshly baked bread, petrol. At last he found the stall he was looking for. It was run by an ancient toothless baker, a man whose wrinkled face seemed as old as time itself.

He made his purchase, and received his portion of taj al malek from the baker’s gnarled hands. The pastry was moist and redolent with honey and spices. He turned back into the crowded alley, and sat down on an overturned barrel to enjoy his treat. He was just finishing up, brushing the crumbs off his sticky fingers, and thinking that maybe he should find a coffee to wash it down, when he saw the nun.

She was dressed all in white, with a large whimple. Tall and stately, with a slight paunch when looked at from the side, and it must be confessed, a bit of a four o'clock shadow. Large hands. Crowley knew those hands. He watched as she comforted the sick and the lonely, healed the injured. She handed out candy to the children, food baskets to skinny wide eyed mothers. She moved about the crowded dusty camp, leaving hope and peace in her wake.

Crowley thought about what lay beneath those pure white robes and felt his breath quicken.

He kept an eye on her until darkness fell, lurking in the shadows, keeping his distance. He watched as she retired to a small white tent on the edge of the camp, lit a lamp. He saw her shadow against the tent wall as she removed her whimple, then her robes, revealing a familiar profile.

 _We’ll have to blow out that lamp,_ he thought, _Or we’ll cause a scandal._ He watched Aziraphale’s flickering shadow against the white canvass. The sight of it filled him with an ineffable yearning, a desire so strong he could hardly stand it. Without further delay he drew in a breath. His human figure was gone and a large black snake slithered toward the flap of the nun’s tent.

Once inside he hissed softly. Aziraphale had changed into a loose fitting, white linen nighty. He was standing in front of a folding table, pouring himself a drink from a small metal hip flask.

He turned when he saw the snake, and smiled.

“You found me!” he said happily. “I was hoping you would! Care for a drink? It's just the local moonshine, I’m afraid. But it's not bad, actually. I know a fellow who gets me the best. At least in these parts.”

The snake gestured with his head, meaningfully, at the kerosene lamp glowing warmly on the table and throwing their shadows into sharp relief against the white walls of the tent.

“Oh, yes, good idea,” said Aziraphale. He waved his hand, and the lamp went out.

A second later the snake was gone and Crowley stood before him.

It was dark in the little tent, too dark to see much. Crowley wanted to take Aziraphale in his arms, wanted the feel of the angel’s cool skin against his, wanted the angel’s smell around him.

“Angel,” he breathed into the darkness. “Did you come looking for me?”

And then he heard Aziraphale moving, felt the brush of the angel’s lips against his own. And for a few minutes there was just that.

“I know how much you hate war zones,” Aziraphale said when they came up for air.

“I do,” said Crowley and bent to kiss him again.

*******

Children taunting children. Crowley never could stand that. It turned his stomach - that abject unfettered cruelty. There is no savagery quite so exquisite as what one child can inflict on another.

But this was more than childhood cruelty. The little girl cowered in a corner of the market square, her face wet with tears and snot, a look of complete terror on her face. The boys surrounding her were all much older, pushing her around, pulling at her dress, slapping her bottom. It was sexual and violent at the same time. She was in her school uniform, her white hijab streaked with red dirt. Soldiers stood on the outskirts, egging the boys on, their machine guns glinting in the sun.

Crowley, watched all this until something inside him snapped and he could stand it no longer. He raised his left hand, about half way up, and opened it slowly. He felt a slight breeze, whistling through his fingers, on this blazing hot, still day. He felt a drawing deep within him.

The hot wind came across the desert, blowing about bits of trash as it came. Crowley raised his hand, ever so slightly and the wind blew a little harder, picking up motes of dust and grains of sand. The sand storm hovered on the edge of the horizon, a black cloud, drawing nearer and nearer, threatening. Crowley raised his hand a little higher. He felt the hot wind on his face now, felt a few stinging grains of sand. Washing on clothes lines started to flutter. The jeering crowd that surrounded the little girl and her tormentors, turned. They looked fearfully at the black cloud of dust approaching the camp.

Merchants started closing the shutters on their windows, covering their stands with canvas tarps. Women ran to bring in the washing, which was flapping angrily on the lines now. The wind whistled through the makeshift shanties and tents of the camp, an eerie hollow sound. The boys who had been torturing the little girl stood stock still, their victim forgotten, as they turned as one to look at that ominous black cloud. Crowley raised his hand a little higher and just as the camp was engulfed in a black whirling cloud of dust he saw Aziraphale, in his white gown and whimple, staring at him from across the crowded square.

********

“That was a good thing you did today,” Aziraphale said as they lay together among the dunes in the starlight.

“Good isn’t a word that is usually applied to me,” said Crowly. “Or my actions,” he added, with a trace of bitterness.

“Saving that girl like that,” Aziraphale went on. “They were bound a determined to rape her, I believe.”

“I just couldn’t stomach it,” said Crowley, looking off into the middle distance. It was an impossibly clear desert night, the stars sparkled above, a million bright hot pinpricks of light. “I…..I don’t like bullying.”

“Brave, too,” Aziraphale said and he kissed him, ever so lightly, on the temple.

“Let's just hope no one in my department finds out about it.” He sighed. “I could be in serious hot water.”

“For that and so many other things,” said Aziraphale gently.

“Yes,” said Crowley. He sighed again, deeply. A light breeze blew through the desert night, and mini whirlwinds of dust danced across the sand. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good demon lately.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. Depends who you’re asking,” said Aziraphale, with a wicked little smile. “I think you’ve been a very good demon.” He bent and kissed Crowley's mouth, breathed in the smell of sulfur rising from him. “Very good, indeed.”

An unexpected meteor shower lit up the desert sky, as the angel and the demon found they did not need to talk any more that night, that, in fact, some things, the ineffable things, were said best without words.


End file.
